


plasticine porters with looking glass ties

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Acid Trips, First Meetings, Hallucinogens, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Weirdness, tripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's supposed to be a first meeting with a prospective asset. It's a whole lot more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	plasticine porters with looking glass ties

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to dizmo for reading this over, and to shadowen for, as usual, holding my little hand while I finished. <3

The waiter sets Phil's beer down on the table, popping off the cap and moving inobtrusively away. Phil picks it up, taking a small sip; it doesn't taste off, which is good. He needs something to do with his hands while Clint- apparently it's Clint, not Barton- talks. It's going well, Phil thinks. At least, it's going as well as he expected, and really, can he ask for more than that?

"Um, there's something I should let you know," Clint says, biting his bottom lip.

He sounds nervous enough that it makes Phil a little nervous. "What is that?"

"I kinda got into some trouble with these guys?" Clint says sheepishly. "Y'know. Bad guys."

"We're aware," Phil says; he's not sure why Clint thinks they aren't. "That's one of the reasons we approached you. If you agree to come with us, we can take care of that problem."

"Well, get ready to take care of it right now," Clint says. "Three of them just walked in."

Phil takes another sip of his beer, giving himself time to think. He wasn't exactly counting on that possibility; he expected Clint to be cagey, mistrustful, probably wait a few days before accepting his offer.

Looks like the timeline just got pushed up.

Clint is staring at him, waiting for an answer, but then he frowns, looking confused. "What's wrong?" Phil asks, though right after he says it, he starts to feel like something's wrong too.

"You just got really pale and started trembling," Clint says, looking at him warily.

Phil blinks. As he watches, Clint's eyes start to swirl, shapes dancing in his irises, moving in and out and through each other, one becoming the next, like a kaleidoscope, like the heavens, and it is easily the most beautiful thing Phil has ever seen.

"They drugged me," Phil says evenly.

"Shit," Clint says, glancing at the bartender, who glances back. "Okay, uh. What's the plan?"

Phil raises an eyebrow, or thinks he does, feels his face stretch like he's doing it. "I think the wall is melting, and you want _me_ to make the plan?"

"Hey, if you're not ready for anything, then why should I join?" Clint says, and there are sparks where his fingers tap the tabletop.

"They're going to come over soon," Phil says, his words starting to slur, running like honey and flowing together. "One of them is going to say something about calling me a cab. If I leave, I won't come back."

Clint looks indignant. "You're just gonna let me-"

"I won't come back because I'll be dead," Phil says, even though his tongue feels sticky when he tries to talk. "Make a scene. Say you're a friend and you have to get me home safe. Get us back to my hotel room. We'll work from there."

"And here you said you didn't have a plan," Clint says. "Tell me your room number."

Phil shakes his head, can't seem to stop shaking it. "Overheard. Show you." He finds his phone, staring at it before handing it to Clint. "Memos." Clint gives him a weird look, but he dutifully finds the app and opens it. "At the top. The little pencil."

"You know I could just steal your phone and run, right?" Clint says.

"Too nice," Phil says, and it takes him both hands to draw his room number on the screen, one to point and the other to brace it. He writes a big HIL underneath it and hopes Clint figures out what he means. "My phone. Not SHIELD. Not interesting."

"Who says I'm nice?" Clint asks, and his words sound like chimes in Phil's ears. "C'mon, let's get you out of here. Follow my lead."

Clint comes around and helps him get on his feet, which takes some doing; Phil's feet have grown roots, planted themselves in the laminate floors. Phil expects an arm around his shoulders or his waist, but Clint laces their fingers together, and Phil feels them join, feels them glued together, sealed.

"You've had enough, baby," Clint says, and the last word cracks like thunder, is wrong and right. "We've gotta get home."

"Is he okay?" someone else says, and a pulse goes up Phil's arm as Clint squeezes his hand.

"He'll be fine," Clint says easily. "Just had a few too many, that's all."

"Why don't we just call him a cab," a second someone says. "Don't want you getting in any trouble."

"That's okay," Clint says. "We'll be alright."

"No problem at all," the someones are saying. "Let us just-"

"No," Phil says; he's not sure how loud it is, even though he's trying to be loud as he can, maybe get them kicked out. "No. Go away. This one is mine."

"Mark, baby, calm down," Clint says, but he's not convincing, doesn't convince Phil. "Sorry, he gets like this sometimes. I'll get him home safe."

"If you're sure," someone says, but it's fading, leaving, they're fading away from it.

Phil doesn't know what happens for a while, if anything happens. Something must happen, because they're in the hallway outside his room, and Clint has his hands on Phil, is touching him, and Phil feels it hot and dry against him, like wind.

"You're back with us," Clint says. "Sorry, looking for your room key."

Phil doesn't know how to respond; his mind is full of keys, of the knowledge of their significance, their workings, their uses. His mind is full of the feeling of Clint's hands, their sneaking, sliding fingers working into Phil's clothing. He does not want Clint to stop.

"Bingo," Clint says, taking his hand out of Phil's hip pocket, and Phil wants to catch it, put it back. But then there is the sound of the lock, and Clint's hands are back, flat on Phil's shoulder blades, and Phil tries to lean into them, but Clint is pushing him forward, and Clint won't let him, won't let him fall like he wants.

Clint steers him to the bed, making him sit down. "My bag," Phil says, looking at his hand before he reaches out, pointing vaguely. "Pocket. Thing. Electric thing. Call."

"Try not to die while I'm doing this, okay?" Clint says, as he fiddles with the comm. He's nervous. Phil doesn't know why he's nervous.

"Don't be nervous," Phil says, or thinks he says, and Clint looks at him, some emotion on his face; Phil doesn't understand it right now. "It's fine. All fine."

"What do I do with this?" Clint asks.

"Buttons," Phil says, shutting his eyes. There are things in there, so he opens them again. "Button. Triangle button."

Clint must get it right, because there's a chirping sound from the comm. "Delta Delta Delta," a voice says, and Phil can see it rising from the speaker, swirling like smoke. "Can I help ya, help ya, help ya?"

Clint looks confused, and Phil shrugs; he doesn't know what it means either, never has. "Delta Base. Phil. I'm Phil. I'm Coulson. I'm Phil Coulson."

"Voice print verified," it says in the smoke. "But you sound like shit, sir."

Phil puts his hands on the sides of his head, trying to keep the information packed in, make it come out his mouth; it takes everything he has to make it make sense. "Picked up target. Need extraction. Send medical."

"Is the situation critical, sir?" Phil shuts his eyes again. "Sir?"

"Um, hi, this is the, uh, target," Clint is saying. "He kinda got roofied at the bar?"

"Did you roofie him?"

"Well that would be rude," Clint says. "Look, whatever they gave him, he's trippin' balls right now. You should send somebody to get him."

"Agent Coulson," the comm says, and this time it cuts in, comes through the haze. "Tell me something only you would know."

Phil's mind churns, roils, and the code phrase tumbles out. "Only wet outside when it's raining."

"Extraction at your location in six hours," the comm says. "Hang tight. Delta Base out."

"Six hours?" Clint says, and he doesn't sound happy. Phil wants to make him sound happy. Phil thinks if he could smooth Clint, roll him out like dough, maybe he would sound happy.

"Flour," Phil says. "Lots of flour. Sticky. Need to flour you."

"Uh, I think maybe we can skip that," Clint says, and then it's flowers, growing up from the carpet, filling the room.

Now Phil is on his back on the bed. The bedspread scratches like a thousand bristles, but it feels good, scratches somewhere strange, somewhere on his body and in his mind.

"Clint," he manages to say. He can't see Clint. Maybe Clint would like the bedspread. It's a good bedspread.

"I'm here," Clint says, and Phil sits up, the world shifting as he does it.

Phil touches his chest. "Tie's gone."

"Yeah, I had to take it off," Clint says. "Didn't want you choking yourself."

"Head will fall off," Phil says. "My head. Need my tie."

"Don't worry about it," Clint tells him. "Feel your neck." Phil gingerly reaches up, brushing his fingers over his neck, up his chin, where there's stubble that feels like bedspread under his fingertips. "Still there."

"Okay," Phil says. "Okay. Need my head. Need it to see."

"That's right," Clint says. "Good thing to use a head for."

Phil realizes he still can't see Clint, head or no. He turns slowly, scanning the room. Clint is sitting on a big rock, his feet just touching the carpet. It's good he's still there. Phil thinks Clint's okay, but then he sees Clint's fingers, his poor fingers, dripping out over the rock like melted crayons.

"Oh, no," Phil says, distraught. "No, no, no."

"What's wrong?" Clint asks.

"Here," Phil says urgently. "Come here." Clint gives him an odd look, but he stands up, crossing the miles between them until he's standing right in front of Phil. Phil grabs his hand, not sure how much time he has; Clint's hand is warm, too warm. "Your fingers, leaking out."

"My fingers are fine, buddy," Clint says gently.

"No," Phil says, wrapping his hand around Clint's fingers, trying to keep them together, keep them on Clint's hands, where fingers go, fingers that are solid and strong and important. "Fingers, don't."

"I'm gonna sit down next to you, okay?" Clint says, and Phil feels like he might cry. The bed moves, and there is a weight beside him; Clint's arm stretches, but it stays intact. "You can look at my fingers all you want. See? They're okay. Just fingers."

All at once Clint's fingers are okay, snapping back into their original shape. "Fingers," Phil sighs, laying his cheek against Clint's shoulder. His shirt is smooth, not like the bedspread at all, and Phil rubs his face against it, wanting to feel more.

"That is a weird thing to say when you're rubbing up on me," Clint says.

"Soft," Phil says, and it's the only thing that he knows to say, the only thing to encompass the words in his head, the worlds, everything he's feeling.

"If this is what SHIELD is like, I should bail," Clint says, but it doesn't sound like he's saying it to Phil.

"SHIELD," Phil says, and that word still has resonance, a big heavy sound that means something. "Shield. Protect. I'll protect you." Phil lifts Clint's hand to his face, holding it to him. "Protect your fingers."

Clint's fingers still, and Phil is terrified for a moment that something is wrong with them again. "That may be one of the nicest things anybody's ever said to me."

"Soft," Phil says again, discovering the skin of Clint's wrist, the warmth of it, so alive and vital and fragile.

Clint very gently takes his hand away, and Phil watches it go. "Hey, buddy, how 'bout you lay back down for a minute?"

"No," Phil says, putting his face in Clint's shoulder again. The world will fall if he does that.

"Okay, then," Clint says.

There are colors.

Phil is wet.

"Cold," Phil says, as Clint helps him lay down in the bed.

"Yeah, I'm sure you are," Clint says. He tries to bury Phil, cover him up, make him disappear. "Easy." Clint puts a hand on his chest, pushing him gently down. "Just blankets. You wanna see?"

Phil wraps his hands around the sod, and it turns into fabric. "Blankets."

"That's right," Clint says. Things are getting fuzzy. Strange. Stranger. Strangest.

"Don't go," Phil says. "Please don't go. Stay."

Clint says nothing for years and years and years. "You just try to get some rest," Clint says, and it hits Phil all in a rush. The ground shakes. "I'm gonna be right here. See? Right here on the other side of the blankets."

"Blankets," Phil repeats, and he can feel Clint's warmth radiate into him, his body so close, even cut off by the thick metal of the bedspread. He turns toward it, the metal rippling around him. He clings, wrapping his arms around Clint, the only thing that's keeping him intact.

He's less intact. It's slipping

"Less," Phil says, because things are sliding

"Less what, Phil?" Clint says, and he's the only th ing lef t 

"Are you with me?"

"Less." it 's bro k en

"Phil?"

br ea k i

ng

"Less."

f a de

fa d ed 

fa

d

in

g

 

……………………………………

 

"Orange juice," Phil is saying, when he comes back to himself. "I want some orange juice."

He cautiously opens one eye; there's no one in the room with him. Guess he's not getting any orange juice.

Why does he want orange juice so bad?

"What happened here?" Fury says, in the hallway.

"Apparently he called Delta Base and asked for an extraction," Maria says. "When the extraction team got there, he was completely naked and singing 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds'. I wish I knew why, because it must be one hell of a story."

"Hmph," Fury says. "Barton won't talk?"

Maria shakes her head. "Says he'll only talk to Coulson. Coulson should be up and lucid pretty soon, so we haven't tried to persuade him yet."

"Hey," Phil says, and the two of them turn to look. Phil debates the merits of asking them to get him some orange juice, but decides he enjoys having thumbs.

"So Sleeping Beauty decided to wake up," Fury says, stepping into Phil's room.

"I don't remember getting kissed by any princes," Phil jokes weakly.

"You need anything?" Maria asks.

"I'd kill somebody for some orange juice," Phil says, and Maria nods to the nurse who walked in behind them.

"What did you do to yourself?" Fury asks. "If you wanted to trip, I'm sure R&D's got some shit they'd love to test on you."

"Barton had a tail," Phil says, squinting up at him, and Fury reaches over, lowering the lights. "He suspected, but turned out they were a lot closer than he thought. They tried to get me out of the way, but with Barton's help, we got out." He shook his head. "The bartender must have been in on it, but I still dunno how they got to me, when I was drinking a-" He breaks off, groaning.

"Lip of the beer bottle," Maria says.

"Lip of the beer bottle," Phil confirms. "Christ, I'm an idiot."

"You completed your objective, got out, and didn't die," Fury says. "That's what we call a success."

"Is Barton asking for me?" Phil asks. The nurse steps in, walking around him and giving Phil a little plastic thing of orange juice with a straw; Phil takes an enormous sip of it and has to work very hard not to moan. 

"He can wait until you're cleared to leave," Maria says firmly. "Get some rest."

"Was it really 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds'?" Phil asks, wincing. "I feel like such a cliche."

"Would you really prefer us walking in on you belting 'Rocky Raccoon'?" Maria replies.

"Point," Phil says.

It's another day and an impressive amount of orange juice before Phil is allowed to leave; after a shave and a long shower, he walks down to where they're holding Clint. He's not actually sure whether they've given Clint the option of leaving. He's also not sure which one he'd prefer; he doesn't want Clint to feel like he's been caught, but he also doesn't want to risk Clint leaving.

Then again, apparently Clint is being stalked by bad guys who like to drug unsuspecting people in bars. Phil certainly wouldn't leave.

"Good afternoon," Phil says, as he steps into Clint's room.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Clint says. "Too soon?"

Phil sits down in a chair across from him. "Has it been explained to you that you can leave at any time?"

"I'm keeping my ass right here, thanks," Clint says. "At least until everything chills out a little."

"You're also welcome to stay," Phil says, though he doesn't tell Clint that that sentence ends with "at Nick Fury's leisure."

"Are you okay?" Clint asks. "Because you really weren't the last time I saw you."

"I'm fine," Phil says. "Thank you for your concern."

"You're kind of a tightass when you're not high," Clint says, and Phil could swear he sounds disappointed.

"I don't want to cast aspersions," Phil says, though actually he really does. "But can you explain to me why I was naked when the extraction team arrived?"

Clint shrugs. "You said something about everything being too purple, then you took off your clothes, made me turn on the shower, and sat in the bathtub for thirty minutes, staring at the soap dish."

Somehow Phil knows he's telling the truth. "Why did you help me?"

"I wasn't gonna argue," Clint says, like he's a little offended by the question. "What kind of asshole would I be if I ditched you like that?"

"I told you you were nice," Phil says, relaxing a little.

"That's a weird thing to say to a mercenary," Clint says unhappily.

"Mercenary's a job title," Phil says. "It's not a personality trait."

"You are so weird," Clint tells him.

"Coming from a guy who's seen me under the influence of powerful hallucinogens, I have to take that as an insult," Phil says, but he smiles.

"I didn't say it was bad weird," Clint points out. "Haven't decided."

"Stick around and find out," Phil says. "You'll have plenty of chances."

"Are you saying I can expect this level of weirdness on a regular basis?" Clint asks, looking skeptical.

Phil laughs. "It only gets weirder and weirder and weirder."


End file.
